


little (big) lion man

by pennyofthewild



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Humor, M/M, Other, Post-Canon, canon-compliant!, except I can't really write humor, perfect copy 2014, practice game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-15 00:42:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2209203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pennyofthewild/pseuds/pennyofthewild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[The tips of Shin-chan’s ears redden. He opens his mouth as if to say something (unintentionally rude, probably, if Kazunari knows him at all) – and then he exhales and says, in the slow, measured way that means he is a nerve away from imploding, “I told you, sir: I can’t play today.”]</p><p>Strange as it may seem, Shin-chan does not operate on the basis of logic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	little (big) lion man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [factorielle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/factorielle/gifts).
  * Inspired by [loves the fearless](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1985280) by [factorielle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/factorielle/pseuds/factorielle). 



> *whispers* apologies for quality.

Difficult as it might be to admit, Shuutoku is in a bit of a pinch. Kazunari bites his lip, takes a deep breath and pushes sweat-soaked hair off his forehead.

Calm down, he tells himself. There’s still time. We can do this.

Okay, Kazunari concedes: _a bit_ of a pinch is an understatement. Half-way through the second quarter, and Yosen is up by eight points. Shin-chan could tie the game in a little over two baskets – but Shin-chan isn’t playing. Kazunari sneaks a look at him from the corner of his eye: seated on the bench, wound tighter than a spring jammed into a tight tiny space.

There are ten feet between them. Kazunari can practically hear him grind his teeth.

***

Before Shin-chan, Kazunari did not put much stock in horoscopes. Astrology wasn’t the sort of thing that registered on his radar. If it ever came up, for instance, in conversation with his sister, he wrote it off as a waste of time.

Destiny, Kazunari used to think, was his for the shaping.

Kazunari is pretty sure he would’ve continued thinking so if it weren’t for Shin-chan. Fussy, practical, reliable Shin-chan, who eschews frivolity like a cat avoids water. Careful, cautious, exacting Shin-chan, who makes up lists and schedules and actually follows them, unlike Kazunari, who can barely keep track of the days of the week.

If Shin-chan believes astrology is credible, Kazunari now thinks, it can’t be _completely_ useless. He won’t say so out loud, of course, and never in Shin-chan’s hearing – he’d lose face. Instead, his newly-changed attitudes manifest in other, more subtle (in Kazunari’s opinion) ways; now, Kazunari records the morning Oha-Asa and listens to it on his way to school; he keeps track of his own (in addition to Shin-chan’s) daily ranking and will sometimes tuck his lucky item into his bag/pocket – if it is readily accessible and not something that would be inconvenient to carry around.

Today, Scorpio’s item, according to Oha-Asa, is a Hello Kitty keychain. Kazunari filches one from Kaya’s collection and slips it into his jersey pocket. Breakfast is French toast-on-the-go, the toast in one hand, his earphones in the other. The recording stops midway. Kazunari frowns and attempts to replay. A dialogue box flashes on screen.

The file you are trying to play is corrupted or does not exist, it declares. Kazunari sighs, and gives it up as a lost cause. Some luck, he thinks: and I was supposed to be ranked third.

On his way to the garage, he sends Shin-chan a text.

 

To: Shin-chan, 6:31 AM  
Rickshaw and I coming to pick you up! Aren’t we the best?

 

He puts his phone away afterwards; Shin-chan hardly ever replies to text messages, so there is no point in holding his breath.

It comes as a surprise, then, when barely five minutes later, Kazunari’s phone vibrates in his pocket.

 

From: Shin-chan, 6:36 AM  
Don’t bother.

 

Rude, Kazunari thinks. Whatever did _I_ do?

***

Shin-chan, it turns out, has his own bike, and is perfectly capable of riding it to school. Kazunari discovers this when he wheels the rickshaw into Shuutoku’s bike shed and finds Shin-chan locking up a sturdy-looking bicycle that looks like it doesn’t see much use. It is almost brand new.

That’s no shocker; Kazunari is Shin-chan’s primary mode of transportation.

“Well,” Kazunari says by way of greeting. “Fancy that: you can get to places on your own.” He doesn’t bother hiding the fact that he is more than a little irritated.

“Takao,” Shin-chan adjusts his glasses with a pristinely wrapped finger. He seems to be avoiding looking directly at Kazunari, gaze focused a foot over Kazunari’s head. “Don’t be ridiculous.” The _of course I can_ goes unsaid.

There is a long drawn-out moment of silence, during which Kazunari tries his best to catch Shin-chan’s eye and Shin-chan tries his best to evade him: and then Shin-chan says,

“Excuse me,” very stiffly, and walks out of the shed. The door slams shut. Kazunari stares, bewildered, frozen in place for several moments before he follows.

It is a Saturday morning, and the schoolyard is quiet. Shin-chan is nowhere to be seen, although it can’t have been that long since he left. It’s been a while since Shin-chan’s acted so distant. Kazunari had almost forgotten what it felt like. He makes his way to the gym, hands in his pockets, the fingers of his right hand curled around the Hello Kitty keychain. He can hear muffled shouts and the sound of dribbling as he draws closer. Warm-ups have already begun: there is Coach Nakatani sounding cross, and the squeak-squeak-squeak of trainers on the gym floor.

The gym door is open a crack; Kazunari slots his fingers into the space and pulls it open. He can see Coach Nakatani by the bench, accompanied by Shin-chan, who looks every centimeter of his awkward, towering height. There is a scowl on the coach’s face; it deepens when he catches sight of Kazunari.

“Takao,” he roars, “you’re late. Get over here!”

Kazunari shoves his feet into his gym shoes. “Coming,” he calls, and tries not to notice Shin-chan’s shoulders tightening. Just what is going on?

Coach Nakatani crosses his arms. “We have a practice game today,” he says, “or did you forget?”

Couldn’t forget if I tried, Kazunari thinks. “No sir. Of course not.”

The coach looks as if he doesn’t quite believe him. “Yousen is no pushover,” he declares.

Well, duh. “Yes sir,” Kazunari says. On Coach Nakatani’s other side, Shin-chan is looking thunderously frowny.

“We need every member of the team to do their best,” the coach continues, giving Shin-chan a pointed look.

The tips of Shin-chan’s ears redden. He opens his mouth as if to say something (unintentionally rude, probably, if Kazunari knows him at all) – and then he exhales and says, in the slow, measured way that means he is a nerve away from imploding, “I told you, sir: I can’t play today.”

Coach Nakatani glares. “Are you ill?”

Shin-chan takes another deep breath. “No sir.”

“Injured?”

“No, sir.”

“Then, perhaps,” Coach Nakatani says bitingly, “there is something physically hindering you from playing?”

Shin-chan’s hands twitch. “It’s - ,” he mumbles, “my horoscope, sir.”

Oh, Kazunari thinks, and recalls not being able to listen to the whole of the morning’s Oha Asa.

Coach Nakatani’s eyebrow hitches upwards. “Your horoscope.”

Shin-chan nods. Coach Nakatani heaves a long-suffering sigh. Shin-chan bites his lip.

“Well?” The coach says, after a long, expectant pause. “What is it?”

Shin-chan brings out his phone, rifles through his playlist. His blush, Kazunari notes, is creeping rapidly up his neck. That’s what happens when you’re pale as a ghost and embarrass easily.

 _In twelfth place_ , Oha-Asa’s voice declares cheerfully, _is Cancer! If you must leave the house, rocking a pair of ski sunglasses will help keep your demons at bay. Watch out for Scorpios – well-intentioned or not, they will bring you a great deal of misfortune today. Conversely, if there’s a Sagittarius you’d like to mend ties with –_

Shin-chan stops the recording.

“Ah,” Coach Nakatani says, and shoots Kazunari a look. “You’re a Scorpio, aren’t you, Takao?”

Kazunari considers it a rhetorical question and doesn’t answer. There is a roar in his ears, growing steadily louder. It sounds like white noise.

“You know,” the coach says, “a lot of these, ah – _horoscope experts_ often sensationalize things. They’re not always right – ”

“Oha-Asa,” Shin-chan says crisply, still pink, “is always right.”

Coach Nakatani runs his palm across his face. “Couldn’t you be a little more open to the possibility it is not?” Alternatively, someone could get Shin-chan a pair of ski-sunglasses, but Kazunari has the feeling winter equipment is unlikely to be available in midsummer.

Some people might underestimate how much faith Shin-chan has in astrology. Kazunari is not one of those people. He’s seen Shin-chan forgo red bean soup in favor of lemon soda when Oha-Asa pronounced red beans unlucky for Cancers. What chance does Kazunari stand, then? He’s pretty sure Shin-chan likes him a lot less than red beans; why, Shin-chan’s practically told him so.

Kazunari clears his throat. “I could always sit out the game,” he says. He tries to keep his voice steady. It’s not like Shin-chan will care if Kazunari is hurt. His fingers curl into his palms.

Should’ve cut my nails, a part of his mind observes; this is painful. “There’s always Kumagai. He needs the practice –”

“It has got nothing to do with you,” Shin-chan says in his most unfeeling manner.

Kazunari glares at him. He tries to ignore the lump in his throat. He wonders why he is so upset, anyway. Who cares if Shin-chan likes him? Shin-chan is a mutant freak: too tall and too green-haired and far too invested in the idea that planetary alignment affects individual futures. He probably offers regular animal sacrifices, and is averse to normal human activities, like visiting the beach. Kazunari loves beaches.

“ – said, the first years could do with the practice,” Shin-chan is saying, “Yosen’s shooting guard is a Scorpio, too, so making Takao sit out is pointless.”

Heartless logic, Shin-chan style. Coach Nakatani looks like he wants to throw a basketball at Shin-chan’s head.

“I’m allowed three unreasonable requests a day, still, am I not? I’ll make this all three – ”

“Midorima-kun,” the coach growls, “do not finish that sentence. You are in no way doing _me_ a favor.”

Shin-chan falls silent. A wise move, in Kazunari’s opinion. Furious Nakatani isn’t the sort of thing he’d wish on anyone.

Coach Nakatani pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fine,” he allows, “I will let Yagi know he’s going to be playing today.” He stalks off.

“Well,” Kazunari says brightly, “I should go warm up. Yousen will be here any minute.”

He turns away. Out of the corner of his eye, Kazunari sees Shin-chan gives him an awkward look. “You’re – angry at me, aren’t you.”

Surprise, surprise. “Oh, not at all,” Kazunari says, and goes to warm up.

***

Almost an hour later, Kazunari is no longer angry. Tired and frustrated, but not angry. Shuutoku is lagging by twelve points, and he has the niggling suspicion Yousen is going easy on them, or the gap would’ve been bigger.

Ten minutes, he thinks. Ten more minutes and this game will be over. Almost certain loss, but who cares? A guy has to lose every once in a while. Can’t win all the time, or you’ll end up with a personality like Akashi’s. Kazunari lost to Akashi, too, like he lost to red beans, and how he’s losing to Murasakibara, who says,

“This is boring. I want to crush Mido-chin,” for what seems to be the hundredth time. Kazunari has never played Murasakibara before. Watching him from the stands, he thinks, is completely different from standing on the court in front of him.

“Bring out Mido-chin,” Murasakibara repeats. He sounds like a broken record: or a child insistent on getting what he wants.  

Because answering would be a waste of breath, Kazunari ignores him. There is also the minor issue of being out of clever rejoinders. Nothing drains energy like desperation. Ten more minutes, he tells himself. “Alright, one basket at a time,” he calls. He adds, “we can do this,” in an attempt to encourage the dispirited Shuutoku first years. Easier said than done, of course, but it isn’t the first years’ fault Shin-chan is a jerk with no sense of loyalty and obligation.

Shuutoku advances forward. Kazunari passes to Yagi, who double-checks. Kazunari sighs. The ball drops to the floor, where it is intercepted by Himuro.

“Defense,” Kazunari shouts at his team. “Protect the basket!”

Kondou makes a grab for the ball and misses. Now they are lagging by fourteen. Nine minutes left.

“Sorry, senpai,” Yagi says. He is a decent player, but doesn’t really do well in stressful situations. He never has.

“Don’t worry about it,” Kazunari smiles as best as he can. “Just get ready for the next play.”

The whistle rings out, bringing the game to a halt.

“Shuutoku, player substitution!”

Kazunari blinks the sweat out of his eyes, turning in the direction of the bench. Maybe Coach Nakatani has given the game up as a lost cause. Maybe he’s going to sub Kazunari out for Kumagai, per Kazunari’s earlier suggestion.

Shin-chan is standing, Kazunari notes, and he’s taking his jacket off and throwing it onto the bench. He hasn’t folded it, which is completely out of character for him. He high-fives Yagi on his way onto the court, another out of character move. He has unwrapped the tape from his fingers – wait. Wait, Kazunari thinks, and pinches his arm.

“Shin-chan,” he says, trying and failing to keep the disbelief from his voice. “What are you doing?”

“Bailing you out,” Shin-chan says, perfectly level. His expression belies his tone: narrow, flinty eyes, no-nonsense mouth. He looks like a guy out to beat somebody up – or play basketball, _kiseki_ style.

“Yeah, right,” Kazunari tilts his chin. “What about your horoscope?”

Shin-chan says, “screw my horoscope.”

For a moment, Kazunari thinks he misheard: and then he notices the identical looks of complete and utter shock decorating the faces on the Shuutoku bench. Kazunari swallows.

“Right,” he says. “Gotcha.”

“Good,” Shin-chan gives Kazunari a brisk nod. “Well, go on. You’re holding up the game.”

Kazunari bites back a laugh. That is classic Shin-chan. The first years welcome Shin-chan onto the court with backslaps and enthusiastic cheering. Shin-chan’s gotten better at accepting shows of affection; he doesn’t flinch - much.

 It’s probably best not to count his chickens before they’ve hatched, but – maybe, the match will end differently now. Maybe Shin-chan can create his own fate. Maybe Kazunari has a place in it. He grips the ball, fingertips tightening around its girth. The referee blows his whistle.

Kazunari passes the ball.

***

Three minutes into the match, Shin-chan took an elbow to the stomach, courtesy of Kazunari, who was attempting to block Himuro from blocking Shin-chan. Shin-chan got back up like the trooper he is: but Kazunari is pretty sure he heard him mutter, “well intentioned or not,” under his breath.

For some reason, it put Kazunari more at ease. The match was a close call; in the end, Shin-chan clinched the game with one of his freakish full-court shots. They didn’t win by much, but they won.

On the way home, Kazunari says, “say, Shin-chan, on one of our days off, how’d you like to go to the beach? My dad’s friend has a boat we can borrow – ”

“Takao,” Shin-chan says, “I hate beaches.”

Ah, Kazunari thinks. Classic Shin-chan.

 

 

 

 

 

 

_end._

 


End file.
